


Who we are

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [20]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Beating, Blood Drinking, Caning, Don’t copy to another site, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Geralt Whump, Humiliation, Imprisonment, M/M, Public Humiliation, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: “I would have sway, under normal circumstances, but my age means little when I associate with humans. And to associate with a witcher, well…” Regis touched the tips of his fingers together. “We live in harmony, and that will not change regardless of who I associate with, but that doesn’t obligate them to like me, nor respect me.”“What would you need to do to earn their respect?” Geralt pressed. “Denounce humans?”“With what little information you have provided of these vampires, I expect that is exactly what they would want of me,” said Regis, his voice growing grave. “My word wouldn’t be nearly enough. I would have to provide tangible proof.”Geralt and Regis have to play the part of Blood Mule and Owner to drive a group of vampires out of Toussaint's outskirts. As one may expect, it's not an especially pleasant experience.





	1. Part One

The Duchess hadn’t minced words when banishing Geralt from her sight. Or rather, her dogsbody, Damien de la Tour, hadn’t. For his deliberate breach of an official order, his failure to ensure Syanna’s safety, and his failure to bring her the head of the beast, Henrietta had made it clear he was never to show himself at the palace ever again, least he be met with the gallows.

With the bitter note he and Henrietta had parted on, Geralt never expected to wake one morning to a courier at his door, brandishing a letter demanding – not asking – for his presence at the palace.

He examined the letter thoroughly to make sure it wasn’t a fake, perhaps a prank by one of the locals to get him in trouble. He wouldn’t put it past the people of Toussaint, who had become disillusioned with their resident Witcher after he had failed to live up to the Duchesses expectations. But the seal was unmistakable, and the letter carried with it the scent of Henrietta’s favourite perfume, one that wasn’t available to the public. Geralt doubted even the closest to the Duchess would have been able to emulate one of her letters well enough to deceive the eyes and nose of a witcher.

He folded the letter into a neat square and slipped it into a pocket, heading out to retrieve Roach from the stables. It would be the first time in weeks he’d gone to Beauclair. He didn’t much like venturing there these days as it was common knowledge that he had not only allowed the beast to escape, but had gotten the Duchesses sister killed in the process (something the people of this fair dutchy had wanted until seeing Henrietta mourn for her, which seemed to have swayed their sympathies.)

He managed to avoid the rowdier of Beauclair’s residents by remaining on Roach until he reached the palace gates. Once in reach of them, he dismounted, tied her to a pole, and took the shortest route to the palace entrance. Damien was waiting for him at the door. He wrinkled his nose at Geralt before gesturing for him to come closer. 

“If it were up to me,” said Damien once Geralt was within ear shot. “You would not have been called, but the Duchess insisted on it.”

Geralt's eyebrows rose. “Did she, now?”

Had she forgiven him, perhaps? Geralt tried not to get too hopeful.

“She could not be dissuaded,” said Damien gruffly. “Though you don’t deserve it, this is your opportunity to get yourself back into the Duchesses good graces. One hopes you will use it well, as she may not be so lenient when next you fail her.”

“Haven’t agreed to do anything yet.”

“You agreed by coming here, witcher.” Damien’s tone of voice matched his sneer. “So I repeat: do not disappoint her.”

“Good to know you care,” said Geralt wryly, folding his arms over his chest.

Damien finally turned and pushed the palace doors open, gesturing for Geralt to follow. “About her, yes, I most certainly do. You, on the other hand…” He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder at Geralt. “Should you fail, there will be consequences, and I will be happy to enact them. Your deceit toward me has not been forgotten, nor forgiven. Nor has the punishment I faced for it.”

Geralt said nothing, diverting his eyes. He made a show of examining the intricate gold patterns woven into the marble tiling as they crossed the room to Henrietta’s throne. If Damien noticed his shame, he didn't acknowledge it.

He raised his head only once within a few feet of Henrietta. These circumstances were much more formal than their usual meetings. The Duchess had dismissed any hint of familiarity they’d once had, and Geralt supposed he deserved that after failing to do his job so utterly. There were hundreds of dead – women, children, men, _infants_ – and all dead because of the actions of one. One that he’d had the opportunity to kill and had instead let walk. Every time he passed the new headstones in the local cemetery he was left uncertain of whether he had made the right choice.

He greeted Henrietta with a traditional bow, sweeping low. She regarded him in the same manner one would an animal. It stung, but he was so accustomed to his presence eliciting disdain in people that he felt nothing beyond that.

The Duchess straightened in her throne, her arms draped over the arm rests. “It has now been three months since the events of The Night of Long Fangs,” she began. “And you not only failed in performing the very task that brought you here, but also at ridding Toussaint of the accursed vampires.”

Geralt raised his head, surprised. “The vampires were made to leave. Compelled by the one who called on them. There shouldn’t be any lingering.”

“There shouldn’t be, yes, but there is.” Henrietta tapped her dainty nails on the arm of the throne. “The vampires that linger are some of the… higher variety that you mentioned. Or so my guards believe, as they have sighted humanoids that exhibit the bestial characteristics you described, and they appeared to taste testing a human at the time of the sighting.”

“Higher vampires generally don’t go out of their way to attract the attention of humans,” said Geralt.

“They haven’t,” interjected Damien. “Hence why you are being brought here three months later, rather than a few weeks. The attacks have been discreet. We only recent reached this conclusion.”

The Duchess cleared her throat and Damien fell silent.

“It is as Sir Damien says,” said the Duchess. “They take one human, perhaps two at a time. It was pure luck that they were spotted during their most recent abduction and were able to be identified as vampires.” She leaned out of her throne. “You, witcher, are to hunt down these vampires and rid us of them.”

“Sounds like I don’t have much choice in the matter,” muttered Geralt.

Henrietta smiled, not at all pleasantly. “You will, of course, be paid for your services, provided they are rendered in full this time.”

“And if I can’t get rid of them?”

“Then the Dutchy will see fit to repossess the Corvo Bianco vineyard and expel you. You are living comfortably here through my generosity, and that can be retracted should you prove yourself to be unworthy of citizenship.”

Geralt made an effort not to look as miserable as he felt. The Duchess was spiteful; that was understandable considering that she had recently been made to bury her only remaining family, but that didn’t make the threat any less demoralising. 

“As her grace wishes,” said Geralt, giving another short bow. He waited until Henrietta dismissed him with a wave of her hand before turning and leaving.

Damien followed at his heels and pulled him aside before he could flee the palace and go somewhere where the loathing wasn’t so palpable. Geralt might have been accustomed to ostracisation, but that didn’t mean he didn’t avoid it when possible.

“Witcher,” said Damien, holding him in place by a shoulder. “The guards who saw the creatures are in the barracks, if you wish to speak to them, and the family recently deprived of a husband live in Francollarts. I’m uncertain of how much they could tell you that the Duchess and I haven’t already covered, but if it helps…”

“I have a much easier way of finding answers,” said Geralt. “But thanks.”

From the sound of the story, even if he did talk to the guards and victims, it would do little to progress his search. It would be much faster, and much easier to employ the help of a vampire instead, and he just so happened to know one that owed him a very big favour.

He left without further preamble, hopping onto Roach and galloping for Regis’ cemetery. While Regis hadn’t been there in several weeks, busy tracking Dettlaff as he was, he hadn’t left Geralt without a means of getting a hold of him should Geralt require assistance. The means in question were his crows, which continued to inhabit the cemetery by the dozens, waiting patiently for their vampiric companion to return.

To avoid scaring the crows away, he tied Roach to a nearby tree before approaching the cemetery. The crows were used to his presence. The same couldn’t be said for Roach, whose size would probably make them scatter.

Geralt swept his gaze over Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery. Crows had gathered at the entrance to Regis crypt, in nearby trees, on gravestones, and even inside a cracked sarcophagus or two (Geralt could see a loose nest peeking out from one of them that was constructed of just as many bones as it was sticks). The crows glanced up at his approach, their beady eyes observing him with interest rather than the traditional wariness. They clearly recognised him.

Geralt dropped to his haunches before one of the crows, which bounced closer and tilted its head at him. While Geralt wasn’t one for pets, he had to admit that it was rather endearing for a crow.

“Find Regis and tell him he’s urgently needed back in Toussaint, then come find me once he’s returned.”

If they could track down a spotted wight, he didn’t expect it would be hard for them to find Regis. As Regis hadn’t disclosed where he was going, however, Geralt wouldn’t be sticking around to wait for him. It could be days, perhaps even weeks before Regis reached Toussaint from wherever Dettlaff had taken him.

Geralt returned to Corvo Bianco and filled the empty hours waiting for Regis with wine preparation (and sampling; a key step to developing a good wine). BB intended to resume production within the next several months and he wanted to familiarise Geralt with the process. It mostly involved drinking, reading, and taste-testing grapes, which were all things Geralt was happy to do.

It was after a long day of languishing in his lounge room with a bottle of White Wolf and a book on the intricacies of grape picking that Geralt received a knock on his door. He didn’t often get visitors. People came by on occasion to request his assistance with Scurver or Archespore – the most common of monsters in Toussaint, but those kinds of visits were still few and far between, and had become even more so after Geralt had fallen out of the Duchesses favour. Generally, if he got a caller at this time of day, it was either a courier with mail from friends or an employee, and Geralt rose with the expectation of being greeted with nothing of great interest.

At the door, he found neither a courier, nor one of his employees.

Regis smiled at him from his doorstep, warm and wide, showing just a hint of teeth. “It’s good to see you well, Geralt. When I received your message, I wasn’t quite sure what to think.”

“You too, Regis,” said Geralt, closing he space between them and pulling him into a hug. Regis hugged him fiercely back. “Doubt having it relayed by crows helped,” said Geralt, guiding Regis inside. “What exactly did they tell you?”

“They’re devilishly smart creatures, Geralt; they conveyed your message clearly.” Regis followed him over to the dining table, which currently held several platters of sandwiches. Far too many for just one person. “But telling me I’m ‘urgently needed back in Toussaint’ isn’t much to go on. I feared perhaps you were in trouble.”

“You were right to think so, then,” said Geralt. He took a seat. Regis sat down across from him. “The Duchess wants something done, and she isn’t going to accept failure this time. I either complete it or get kicked out of Toussaint.”

“Oh dear.” Regis pursed his lips. “What exactly is it that she had asked you to do?”

“Demanded,” Geralt corrected him. “She wants me to address a vampire problem.”

Regis’ brow wrinkled. “Vampire problem? Forgive me, but I’m not a great socialite among my kind, so I’m afraid I haven’t heard of this problem.”

“They’re missing out,” said Geralt. He plucked a chicken sandwich off a plate and picked at it while he spoke. “Some higher vampires have settled nearby, or so the Duchess believes. I’m inclined to agree, given that the guards spotted a humanoid with bestial features taste testing the blood of a human, which isn’t typical of any other creatures I know.” He popped a piece of tomato into his mouth, chewing and swallowing. “The influx of lesser vampires a few months back might have caught their attention and drawn them here.”

Regis’ expression was growing increasingly ponderous.

“I think they’ve been cultivating their own blood bank,” continued Geralt. “That’s my best guess seeing as they’ve been taking people rather than bleeding them dry on the spot.”

“That’s quite the problem,” murmured Regis, his eyes now diverted. Distracted. “And not at all easily resolved. I’m not entirely certain for what reason you called me, but if it was to force them to stop, or convince them to leave, I’m afraid I don’t have the social standing to do either of those things.” His eyes flicked briefly back to Geralt. “And I assume you wouldn’t be so foolish as to try fighting them, so you certainly aren’t here to ask me for advice in that regard nor to employ my help with the culling.”

Geralt shook his head. Fighting was out of the question; Geralt had never doubted that. He’d barely been able to hold his own against Dettlaff. Against more than one higher vampire he would be dead in minutes.

“Fighting one higher vampire was enough,” he said. “Have no intention of throwing my life away by trying to fight several.”

“Then what is it you need from me, Geralt?” asked Regis. “I will, of course, assist in any way I can, but there isn’t much I can do, given my lack of influence among my kind.”

“Kinda hoped you did have some sway,” he admitted. “You’re an elder. Or older than most, at least.”

“I would have sway, under normal circumstances, but my age means little when I associate with humans. And to associate with a witcher, well…” Regis touched the tips of his fingers together. “We live in harmony, and that will not change regardless of who I associate with, but that doesn’t obligate them to like me, nor respect me.”

“What would you need to do to earn their respect?” Geralt pressed. “Denounce humans?”

“With what little information you have provided of these vampires, I expect that is exactly what they would want of me,” said Regis, his voice growing grave. “My word wouldn’t be nearly enough. I would have to provide tangible proof.”

“If you had tangible proof, could you convince them to leave?”

“It’s entirely possible.” Regis sighed, dropping his hands into his lap. This topic of conversation clearly pained him. “Allow me to explain, Geralt.”

Geralt bit into his sandwich. He could feel a spiel coming on.

“Vampires have something of a hierarchical society, with one’s position being determined by age. Hence why elders, such as the Unseen, are regarded with reverence and respect. Having been born in eight hundreds, while the vampire population was few in numbers, those a century or two younger – as most vampires are these days – consider vampires my age an authority. This is especially applicable if the vampires you speak of are in their teething years, which they may very well be given that they’ve decided to settle in a pack close to human civilisation so to make enslaving humans easier. Most mature vampires prefer to live far from human kind.” He paused for a brief period, as though waiting for the information he had given to sink in. “Of course, none of this applies if one doesn’t act in the interests of their inferiors. One who does not abide by vampiric customs is ostracised, regardless of whether they’re one hundred, two hundred, even a thousand years older. Unfortunately, as I have chosen to live among humans and reject the way of my brethren, I am among those ostracised by my own kind.”

Now on the second half of his sandwich, Geralt nodded as he chewed. As long-winded as Regis could be, his monologues about vampire culture were always interesting, and Geralt listened to them with rapt attention.

“However,” said Regis. “if I were to provide them with a specimen or two, perhaps one of my associates, it would make my alignment clear and foster the beginnings of a relationship of trust and respect. I could grow to become a source of guidance. I have run packs before, albeit at a much younger age, and they were generally successful provided I wasn’t too intoxicated to perform my duties as pack leader.” He raised a finger. “This is all assuming these creatures kidnapping the residents of Toussaint are indeed younger than me and are indeed vampires.”

Regis cleared his throat and reached for a nearby goblet, helping himself to a generous helping of cranberry juice.

“No idea what else they could be,” said Geralt, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “But half the reason I called you was to find out their location and identify them. No one knows where they could be holding up, currently.”

Regis nodded and sipped from his goblet. “It will be done.”

“And if they are higher vampires,” Geralt went on. “You can take me to them as an offering.”

“I thought you might say that,” said Regis, his voice becoming grave again. “I would like to be able to tell you it’s too dangerous a plan, but the alternative is doubly so. I don’t suppose you would be willing to uproot, perhaps move to Novigrad? The Duchess isn’t likely to send anyone after you once you’re past the border.”

“Not a chance,” said Geralt. A proud Northerner though he was, you couldn’t pay him to move to Novigrad. Even on its worst day, Toussaint was a paradise. People didn’t spit at him as he passed. The streets didn’t smell of mud and piss. He wasn’t awakened in the early hours of the morning to brawling beyond his window, which seemed completely inevitable no matter what district of Novigrad you inhabited. And several of his friends either planned to or _had_ migrated here. There was nothing for him in Novigrad, nor in Velen and thereabouts.

“Such a plan promises to be deeply unpleasant for the both of us,” said Regis, perhaps trying to dissuade him.

“It does,” said Geralt. “But that’s hardly an uncommon event in my line of work.” He brushed bread crumbs off his trousers. “I would rather your help, but I’ll figure something else out if I’m asking too much of you.”

“There is nothing you could ask of me that would be too much, Geralt.” Regis shook his head, resigned. “I will need a few days to familiarise myself with your quarry before planning can proceed. This will require more than a cursory glance.”

“Anything I should be doing in the mean time?” asked Geralt.

“Reconsidering this contract,” said Regis, his mouth curving into a frown. “But I know the likelihood of you doing that is slim, so I suggest you eat well, hydrate yourself, and develop potions that promote blood production. Just in case, of course; I may be able to deal with the issue myself.”

Geralt examined Regis for one long, quiet moment. “You have a say in this, Regis. You can refuse my plan, should it come to that.”

“And force you to vacate the only home you have ever owned?” Regis shook his head, fingers moving absentmindedly over the strap of his bag. “I’ve no desire, nor intention to force you to address this issue on your own, especially after the great kindness you did me with Dettlaff.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Geralt started to protest, but Regis cut him off, holding up a hand.

“I don’t wish to do this, but I do wish to help you, and that makes all the difference.” He retrieved a sandwich for himself, picking out the lettuce. “I shall have a look for them this evening and report my findings before weeks end.”

“And I’ll sit on my ass and make potions,” said Geralt.

“You very much deserve to, my friend. Rest while you’re able.”

“You don’t have to worry about me not taking advantage of the downtime,” Geralt assured him. He was well past the age where he favoured keeping active.

Regis smiled. “Let us change the topic, then. I’m sure you’re waiting for an explanation about just what I’ve been up to.”

Geralt nodded. He had to admit, he was curious to hear if Regis had managed to find Dettlaff, and if so, how his recovery efforts were going.

It turned out Regis _had_ found Dettlaff, who had taken to living in a cave (which Regis generously called a comfortable dwelling). Dettlaff now refused to interact with higher society, lived on wild game, and surrounded himself with lesser vampires, which Regis described as ‘lacking in stimulating conversation’. It would be some time before Dettlaff was willing to venture near humans again, but Regis hoped to at least get him to live among fellow higher vampires, so he would not spend his days with naught but fledglings to talk to. Or hiss at, rather, which was a Fledgling’s preferred method of communication.

They discussed their mutual acquaintances and friends for some hours before Regis announced that it was time for him to leave. Geralt walked him to the edge of the vineyard, then returned to his dining room and devoured the fresh chicken Marlene had prepared for dinner.

He would start on the potions in the morning. For now, he had a chapter of ‘the intricacies of running a vineyard’ to finish.

* * *

With what resources and time he had, Geralt made enough swallow potions to fill twenty five vials. He’d initially poured the concoction into flasks, but it had occurred to him half-way through the process that flasks weren’t going to be discreet enough. He wouldn’t be able to hide any on his person if he took flasks.

After corking each vial, he wrapped them in cloth to prevent breakage and stored fifteen of them in a bag, and the remaining vials on a belt hidden under his shirt.

Regis was impressed with his work ethic. “You’ve made so many that one has to wonder if you took any rest at all,” he said, stowing the contents of the bag among his own supplies. Before closing it, he extended a hand to Geralt. “However, I will need you to give me the remaining vials. You underestimate my brethren if you believe they will go unnoticed.”

With a frown, Geralt reached for the buckle of his belt. “Is it that obvious?”

“To a vampire, yes. To the average human, I imagine not.”

He handed over the vials. Regis tucked them into his now-bulging shoulder-bag.

“Now,” said Regis, seating himself on one of the many barrels scattered throughout Geralt’s laboratory. “My searching brought me to an abandoned keep on the outskirts of Toussaint. There, I did indeed see a congregation of my own kind.”

“Thought as much,” said Geralt, leaning against a wall. “How many?”

“Twenty or so,” said Regis. “There may be more. I didn’t dare get too close, least I endanger our mission.” He fiddled idly with his bag strap. “They are young, as I anticipated. I don’t believe there are any above two hundred years living among them. Young as they are, I don’t expect any suggestions I make – once I have garnered enough influence – would be greatly contested, if at all.”

“Great,” said Geralt. “We can proceed with our plan.”

Regis held up a hand. “Just a moment, Geralt. Before we do anything, I want to detail how I would like this plan to go.”

“Go ahead,” said Geralt, leaning his hip into his work desk.

“The first thing you must know, Geralt, is that this will take time,” began Regis. “Weeks if we’re lucky, months if we’re unlucky. I must impress that these will be very, very unpleasant days for us.” He lowered his hand, his eyes on Geralt. “You have read of the atrocities of my kind, but you’ve not experienced them. They will not shy away from torture, nor public humiliation, and some will be eager to test the capabilities of a witcher. It will be painful, psychologically and physically, in a way you won’t have experienced before, and I don’t tell you these things to dissuade you, but to warn you.” A beat of silence. “You won’t be spending your time there sitting in a cellar, being drawn from for blood. They might do that to a human, perhaps, but not a witcher. It will be considerably more unpleasant for you.”

“I know what I’m getting into,” Geralt reassured him. “Experienced a lot of misery in my time. Doubt they’ll bring anything new to the table.”

Regis shook his head. “I disagree. You see, I will be made to participate, and I doubt this element will be easy on you.” He swallowed. “On either of us.”

“Rather it be you than someone else,” said Geralt.

Regis smiled at this comment, but it was a thin one. Forced. “That is… kind of you to say, I suppose, but I don’t imagine it will be as easy as you seem to believe. Acted or not, it is painful to be harmed by one you care about.”

“Regis,” said Geralt, pushing off the wall to approach his friend, slipping his hands to Regis’ shoulders. “If you’re worried this is going to change the way I think about you, don’t be.”

Regis sighed, his body slumping forward, his head inches from Geralt’s stomach. He seemed to be seeking proximity. “I worry about many things. But I told you I would assist you in this endeavour, and I will.”

“Thank you.” Geralt hesitated before lifting a hand and skating it briefly through Regis’ hair, petting him like one would a cat. He thought it a foolish thing to do, a silly whim, but when he stepped back, Regis was smiling at him. Genuinely this time.

“Assuming you are prepared for the long weeks ahead,” said Regis, standing from the barrel. “Then we shall leave this evening.”

“Fine by me,” said Geralt.

“One last thing, Geralt,” said Regis. “Should the situation get too much for you, I ask that you tell me. We will leave.” He followed Geralt out of the laboratory. “Your well-being is important to me.”

Geralt nodded. He didn’t expect he would need to request a retreat, but it was kind of Regis to offer. “You too, Regis,” he said. “If things get too much for you, you tell me.”

They headed out into the mid-day sun – a sun Geralt knew he wasn’t likely to feel on his skin again for some time.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so: sorry this took so long to update! I've been distracted by other things, so I haven't had much of an opportunity to do edits. I'll try to get the next chapter out faster! This one is pretty bulky, so hopefully that makes up for the wait.

The keep was located far beyond the sprawling hills of Toussaint, situated in some grassy flatland's. Whoever had built the structure clearly hadn’t given much thought to fortification, nor had they considered the inconvenience of being so far from civilisation. It was no wonder the structure had been abandoned, though it was still an impressive sight. Tall and wide and boasting a barbican of excessive height, which Geralt supposed had been built with the intention of intimidating potential assailants. It was clearly of human architecture, rather than elven, and consequently there was an emphasis on height and battlements rather than on spires. It looked like the pet project of a young, arrogant prince. And maybe it had been, but Geralt doubted he would be able to find out the history of the place while he was there.

Regis’ face became pinched with anxiety as they drew closer. He was handling the whole thing much worse than Geralt, who was managing to suppress his trepidation to great success. He had always been very good at facing terrible situations with a straight face.

“That’s not a very convincing look,” he told Regis. “Your face, I mean. The clothes suit just fine.”

In a long black coat with a red robe underneath and boots that gave him an extra lift in height, Regis fit the part of a regal vampire. But it wouldn’t do him much good if he couldn’t get his expression to match.

Regis straightened slightly, glancing at him.

“No, I suppose it isn’t,” Regis conceded. There was a momentary silence, filled with naught but their crunching footsteps, before Regis smiled and spoke again. “But why ever would you think I care for the opinion of a human – no, a _mutant_. That’s what the humans call you, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll oblige their social conventions this once.”

Regis had affected a strange tone of voice, something low and derisive, and it shocked Geralt into silence. The voice was so at odds with the Regis Geralt knew that it was hard to believe it came from the same person.

Regis’ face fell when he looked at Geralt. “Perhaps… perhaps we should reconsider, if even that was too much.”

“No,” said Geralt quickly. His hands were bound with dimeritium shackles, or he would have patted Regis on the shoulder. The man looked so deeply pained that it was impossible not to feel for him. “I was just surprised. You’re a better actor than I expected.”

“One has to be when one is intent on integrating with a society which regards it as a threat.” Regis cleared his throat. They were coming up on the castle entrance. “I’m about to manhandle you, Geralt. Please prepare yourself.”

Geralt made a show of rolling his eyes in an attempt to put Regis at ease. It's effect was negligible. “Get on with it, Regis.”

“Very well.” Just a few scant feet from their destination, Regis caught the chain linking Geralt’s shackles in hand and yanked him forward, almost onto his knees. The gate to the keep was currently closed.

They were there perhaps a second, perhaps two before a vampire came misting into being before them, regarding them both with interest.

Regis smiled at the other vampire, wide and toothy. Uninhibited, and Geralt almost felt bad that these circumstances were the only ones under which Regis felt comfortable enough to show his teeth.

“Emiel Regis! I’ve heard much about you,” said the vampire, tilting his head. He had long, blond hair that cascaded down his back.  “What brings you here? And with your witcher, no less. I certainly hope you aren’t planning on trying to cut us down.”

Regis snorted. “Yes, of course, that’s why I’ve deprived him of his witcher tools and bound his hands.” He gave the chain a yank, and this time Geralt went stumbling to his knees, thudding hard into the grass. “He’s more effective on the battlefield this way, you see.”

“Point taken,” said the vampire, his lip curling. “What brings you here, then? I thought you’d renounce our ways to live out your life as a human.” He spoke with such derision that he might as well have spat at Regis; it would have conveyed the same message.

“And who told you that?” asked Regis, arching an eyebrow. “I never intended to live as a human. Don’t be foolish. I merely immersed myself in their culture for a while, out of a simple curiosity.”

“What did you learn?” asked the vampire with a laugh.

“Not a great deal of value,” said Regis. “Except that witcher’s have delightful tasting blood. You really must try it. Which is, in fact, why I am here.”

“Do they, now?” The vampire regarded Geralt curiously. Geralt kept his eyes on the grass. “Whatever did he do to fall from your good graces, Regis?”

“Attempted to kill my blood brother, Dettlaff,” said Regis. “For that, he deserves no less than this. Not that he was ever any threat to Dettlaff, but it is unforgivable all the same.”

Geralt snorted softly, involuntarily, and jolted as one of Regis’ hands twisted into his hair tight enough to draw pinpricks of blood.

“Not a sound, little wolf, or I’ll make you crawl to the castle,” said Regis in that cool, unfamiliar tone of voice. “Is that understood?”

“Understood,” Geralt choked out.

“Good.” Regis released him, throwing him forward as he did so. Geralt’s bound hands skated through the grass.

The vampire seemed impressed with Regis’ display of dominance.

“We should have a cell available for him,” said the vampire, gesturing for Regis to follow him inside. “I am Hadrian Belmont-Corvus, by the way. You’ll have the opportunity to meet the others at dinner, _marunu_.”

“Thank you,” said Regis graciously, pulling Geralt to his feet and guiding him through the gate.

The courtyard was large and lush, but also overgrown and neglected. The vampires hadn’t made any effort to make the place more habitable. They seemed content to leave it as they had found it, and Geralt wasn’t at all surprised considering he had yet to meet a vampire with a hospitable dwelling.

They passed a derelict fountain and approached two towering double doors, which emitted such a loud groan that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. The sound attracted the attention of vampires walking the hallways, who watched them curiously as they passed. Regis kept his head held high. He played his part perfectly, grinning at his brethren and periodically pulling at Geralt's chain hard enough to make his steps stutter. 

They were made to traverse a labyrinth of hallways before Hadrian brought them to a set of descending stairs, the bottom of which opened to a dungeon. The cells within held a myriad of humans. Some were young, some old, and some looked on death’s door, their pale faces stark against the filthy stone. Geralt was brought to the end-most cage and tossed inside, and while he was on the floor, scrambling for his feet, Regis used a padlock to secure Geralt’s shackles to a metal ring sticking out of the wall. The ring forced Geralt’s arms into the air, placing strain on his shoulders. The position was going to get uncomfortable very fast.

“I’ll be back soon, little wolf,” said Regis. He stood, his coat swaying as he took long strides for the door. “Let us go. I’m eager to reunite with my brethren.”

Hadrian grinned. “It will be a pleasant surprise. Though we should have expected this. After all, how could humans possibly replace the company of our own kind? The thought is preposterous.”

“Oh, I agree.” Regis closed the cell door. It locked automatically behind him; it must have been of vampiric make, as locks built by humans didn’t function in such a manner.  The vampires had made the cages in which they kept humans more efficient, Geralt realised with disgust.

“If you try to speak to them on their level, they can be a terrible bore,” continued Regis. “They’re such uncomplicated beings.”

“I don’t know how you put up with it for so long, Regis,” said Hadrian sympathetically.

“Nor do I. It was so terribly frustrating that I had to isolate myself in later years.”

Whatever Hadrian said next, Geralt didn’t hear, as he and Regis both disappeared back upstairs.

Geralt glanced into the cell closest to him, which was occupied by a man whose face had the grey tinge of a tombstone. The way he looked, Geralt expected he would soon be lying beneath one too.

“Hey,” said the man. “You’re… you’re that witcher. The white haired one.” Every word seemed an effort, and he was slurring so badly as to almost be incomprehensible.

“Yes,” said Geralt.

“Are- are you here to save us?” asked the man, leaning his forehead against the bars separating them. A thin sheen of sweat shone on his skin. Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if he expired in the night.

“No,” said Geralt, his voice strained.

“Didn’t think so.” The man sighed, resigned to his fate. “That’s a shame. But I’m tired now. I think I’ll sleep a while.”

Geralt remained silent. Within minutes, the man had fallen just as silent, his breaths coming out in quiet gasps as he slumbered. If he was to die, Geralt hoped it would be while he was unconscious. To feel your life slip away from you was a terrible sensation, and one Geralt knew all too well.

Geralt made himself as comfortable as possible in preparation to meditate. It came in handy when he was confined somewhere. He could close his eyes and drift, which meant he didn’t have to court boredom. Quite a good thing, as he was the sort to get itchy fingers when he spent too long doing nothing.

The nature of his surroundings meant it took longer than usual for him to descend into a meditative state, but he did eventually manage to close off his mind to the outside world. If the man expired in the night, Geralt wasn’t aware enough to hear his final breaths.

After an indeterminable length of time, the sound of a cell door opening jarred him out of his reverie. His eyes snapped open. He became aware of an ache in his arms and a pounding in his lower back, hot and intense, but he ignored these pains in favour of watching Hadrian step into the cell and place a goblet at Geralt’s side. Regis joined him a moment later, and Geralt noted that he was wielding a small knife made of the same foreign metal as ‘the humanists’ ring.

“His blood really is the best I’ve tasted,” he told Hadrian. He freed one of Geralt’s arms and coiled his fingers hard around Geralt’s wrist, holding it over the goblet. It didn’t take a genius, nor a witcher to figure out what he intended to do.

Geralt looked away. He didn’t particularly enjoy watching injuries being inflicted on himself.

“I’ve never tasted witcher’s blood,” said Hadrian, the thirst and longing thick in his voice. “How would you say it differs from the average human?”

“Try for yourself,” said Regis. “It’s better to experience than explain such an delightful taste.”

“If you insist.” The vampire was practically bouncing on his heels, watching impatiently as Regis positioned the point of the knife.

Regis chuckled and slid the knife smoothly into Geralt’s wrist, piercing into it with disturbing ease. He met no resistance at all as he dug in deep enough to nick a vein. The blood came forth in a small, but steady stream, falling neatly into the goblet.

Geralt kept his jaw set and his eyes on the wall.

“Don’t look so tense, little wolf,” said Regis, and his voice was soft, but it was deceptively so. Geralt could still hear the affected cold edge and a hint of derision. “This is a privilege. Most aren’t kept alive for such purposes.” 

“Yes,” agreed Hadrian. He handed Regis a piece of cloth, which Regis pressed to Geralt’s wound once the goblet was full. “Humans can be so obstinate sometimes. At least this one doesn’t scream incessantly. That’s a nice change of pace.”

“He can, when you want him to,” said Regis, casting his companion a sharp smile.

Hadrian retrieved the goblet from the floor. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, taking a small sip of the collected blood. A shudder and sigh followed, and then he took a longer sip, almost a gulp, seeming to lose himself to the taste. It was an almost obscene display.

“I take it you like it,” observed Regis.

“It’s as wonderful as you claimed,” he said, passing the goblet to Regis, who hesitated before bringing the rim to his lips. It was less than a teaspoon that he swallowed, but he shuddered just as violently as Hadrian, his neck tendons straining and his throat bobbing. It was uncomfortable for Geralt to witness, particularly as it was hard to distinguish his reaction as pleasure or pain. Whatever Regis was feeling, Geralt knew he wasn’t enjoying it on a psychological level.

“We must share this with the others,” Hadrian continued, moving to re-shackle Geralt’s wrist and heave him off the wall.

It seemed to take Regis a moment to recover his wits.

“Provided he isn’t overdrawn, certainly,” said Regis, moving to assist. He handed the goblet to Hadrian, who drained it of the remaining blood before helping Regis pull Geralt from the floor.

Geralt’s shoulders were one long, tense line as he was pulled from his cell. He’d known he would be displayed to the other vampires as a feeding troth; Regis had warned him of this, but it was impossible not to be uneasy with the thought of what was to come.

“He’s much quieter than the other humans,” said Hadrian, glancing over his shoulder at Geralt.

“Oh, he has a mouth on him when he’s in the mood,” said Regis in that affected, harsh drawl. “But that can be curbed. You just need a firm hand.”

“Have you tried cutting out his tongue? I find that fairly effective.”

“His tongue can be an asset, at times. I’m not yet willing to give it up.”

“Oho? Fair enough.”

Hadrian brought them to a door, out of which spilled a dull, flickering wedge of candlelight. It must have been for aesthetic sake, since vampires could see perfectly well in the dark.  

Geralt raised his eyes just enough to survey the merrymaking going on within before dropping them back to the ground, following Regis with his head bowed low and his face impassive. The vampires looked to be getting quite boisterous, and it was an effort not to look obstinate as he was guided into that boisterousness and presented like a succulent piece of meat. This was the first witcher many of them had ever seen. They were curious. They grabbed him by the chin and tilted his head this way and that, murmuring amongst themselves about his more unusual attributes and sniffing hungrily at the promise of blood.

Regis caught the chain of Geralt’s shackles under the sole of a boot and sent him thudding to his knees.

“Get your goblets, friends,” Regis announced, coiling a hand around Geralt's blood-smeared wrist and turning the wound there to the ground.

Geralt’s accelerated healing meant the flow of blood had slowed, but hadn’t stopped completely. It trickled down his forearm and to the crook of his elbow while the vampires scrambled to retrieve their goblets. 

Many of them were already drunk. Geralt hoped that meant they wouldn’t be indulging too heavily in him.

They took turns drawing from his wrist like a barrel tap, then began describing the taste to each other with all the verbosity of a wine connoisseur. Geralt didn't particularly want to hear what they had to say, but he hadn't much choice, and his ears picked up that his blood apparently had a thick, creamy body; that it had a refreshing acidity; that it had a biting smell, and a faint, sweet aftertaste. The consensus seemed to be that he was a fine concoction.

Regis answered questions while they drank. Most of them pertained to the quality of Geralt’s blood, and if it could be emulated in another human being, while other vampires were more curious about Geralt’s queer eyes, hair, and enhancements. Regis ensured they all got a good look at him. When they asked about his eyes, he brought Geralt’s chin up and lifted an eyelid. When they asked about his hair, he grabbed a handful and allowed them to touch. When they asked about his scars, he traced the tips of his long, taloned fingers over them and manoeuvred Geralt so each blemish was easier to see. It was all very humiliating.

When finally they ceased drawing from Geralt and moved back to the vast dining table, Geralt was made to sit at Regis’ feet. The man’s hand lingered in his hair, stroking idly, and Geralt was too fatigued to think much of its presence.

The vampires feasted on fresh fruit, vegetables, and meat, all of which was smothered in sauce and spices. The palate of a vampire demanded the most pungent of foods. Regis had told him once that anything less was too bland for the average vampire. While Regis had adapted to human food, most wouldn’t be able to eat a piece of lettuce without gagging unless it was smothered in something with a stronger flavor.

Occasionally Regis would dip a hand beneath the table, pressing a grape or a piece of meat to Geralt’s lips. He did this within full view of his comrades, so it wasn’t something he was doing purely for Geralt’s benefit. He was feeding him to emphasis the relationship between them – inferior and superior. Livestock and owner. Geralt accepted each morsel reluctantly, chewing and swallowing, his ears turning red from the embarrassment of being treated like a pet. Regis had been right; he hadn’t been prepared for _this_.

“He’s very well behaved,” said one of the vampires, one Geralt vaguely remembered had introduced himself as ‘Eruthu’ earlier. “We’ve been trying to get some of the humans to relax a little. Their blood is easier to draw that way, _and_ it tastes better, but we haven’t been having much luck.”

“As I told Hadrian, it takes a firm hand,” said Regis, sliding another grape past Geralt’s lips. His thumb traced Geralt’s jaw. “But bonding is important as well. Have you read ‘Human Husbandry and Care’? It’s an invaluable resource.”

“I’ll have to pick up a copy,” murmured Eruthu. “The woman I’ve been trying to sway just keeps crying when I approach her. It’s terribly annoying. And sometimes she gets tears in the blood, which just sullies it.”

“I’m happy to offer some guidance,” said Regis. “It takes time and patience to get the best out of them, and I like to think I’m rather practised at it by now.”

They continued to talk on the subject of Human Husbandry and Geralt tuned it out, closing his eyes, allowing himself to drift. He still opened his mouth when prompted and moved his head wherever Regis indicated that he should, but he was otherwise adrift, present only in body.

Geralt didn’t notice people had retired to bed until Regis’ chair screeched across the stone floor and he rose. Geralt rose with him, extending his hands so Regis could hold the chain. Regis did. He smiled at Geralt, then at the few lingering vampires, who looked on approvingly.

They bid each other goodnight and instead of guiding Geralt to the basement, he brought Geralt to a sleeping chamber. A nicely finished one at that, with a double bed, a dresser, drawers, a window (barred, of course), and a rug that spanned one half of the room. Geralt started to open his mouth to speak, but Regis’ fingers passed over his lips, a soft ‘hush’ rolling into his ear as they approached the bed.

The other vampires could hear them. See them, perhaps, if they were still wary of Regis.

“You behaved well tonight, little wolf,” Regis said as he shrugged out of his coat. He folded it neatly and placed it on the bedside table. “You may sleep on the end of the bed.”

He supposed that was as close to kindness as Regis could give him under these circumstances. He crawled onto the bed, curling up on the end.

“What do we say?” asked Regis, his gaze kind but his voice still maintaining that derisive quality.

“Thank you,” said Geralt, with difficulty.

“Better.” Regis slid beneath the covers and made himself comfortable. He discreetly retrieved a vial from his bag and slid it to Geralt. “To help you sleep, little wolf. We have a long day tomorrow.”

Geralt didn’t doubt it. This one had been long as it was, and they’d arrived in the evening. He downed the Swallow, then handed back the empty vial.

“Thank you,” he said again. It felt odd that these were the only words he’d spoken since their arrival in the castle.

He slept fitfully that night and he was sure Regis did the same.

* * *

Geralt spent much of the following day seated before the window in Regis’ chambers with his shackles chain twisted around one of the bars.  He was given food and water in small increments, just enough to satiate him, and permitted to use the bathroom facilities every couple of hours.  Other than this, he was left alone. The only reprieve he had from his discomfort was the fact the food and water provided were of good quality. He actually looked forward to meals.

It wasn’t until evening arrived that he was brought out again. Not to drink from, this time, but to sit at Regis’ feet and be petted and gawked at. He was fed again, bits and pieces of a cheese platter this time, and he found himself enjoying the array of cheese despite the humiliating nature of it. The cheese must have been prepared by the vampires themselves, as it was nothing like any cheese Geralt had tasted before. Much sharper, pungent, with an aftertaste that lingered on your tongue.

“I’m envious, Emiel,” one of the vampires admitted. “Your pet witcher is quite the oddity. I wouldn’t mind one myself.”

“I’m afraid he is among the few left,” said Regis. His fingers traced idle patterns into Geralt’s scalp. “They’re infertile, you see. The only way to create more would be to make them ourselves through those ‘witcher trials’, but breaking down each element of the process has been troublesome with so few specimens to examine.”

“Well, if ever you bore of him, I’d be happy to break him open and see what goes on inside,” said the vampire, gracing Geralt with a broad smile. “They’re nowhere near as biologically complex as us. I’m sure I’d figure it out.”

“I shall keep you informed,” said Regis. He slid Geralt another morsel of cheese.

The dinner was uneventful. The vampires drank and ate and conversed until the early hours of the morning. It was only when four vampires remained – Regis included – that Regis finally stood from his chair and stretched, bidding his fellows goodnight. They retired to his bedroom.

Just as last night, Regis stripped down to his underclothes and ordered Geralt to do the same. Tonight, however, he didn’t direct Geralt to the end of the bed. Instead he slid beneath the covers and patted the vast space beside him, offering Geralt a toothy smile.

“Beside me, little wolf. I want your warmth.”

Geralt stared at him for a long moment, baffled by this request. He was sure Regis had a good reason for making this request of him, but Geralt was having a hard time figuring out what that might be.

“Little wolf,” said Regis again, his voice lower, with a hint of anger that was belied only by the warm shine of his eyes. “Into bed. Now.”

Geralt obeyed, sliding into bed beside Regis, allowing the man to draw their bodies close together. Their thighs and chests were perfectly aligned.

“Geralt,” he said, directly into Geralt’s ear, so soft as to almost be inaudible. His lips brushed the shell with every word. “How are you holding up, my friend? Speak quietly and fast. Against my shoulder.”

“Fine,” he whispered back, speaking against Regis’ shoulder as instructed. He barely said anything at all, but Regis’ ears seemed to catch his answer all the same.

“You do not wish to stop?”

“We’ve barely started.” He slid his hands to Regis’ sides, giving him a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “And you?”

“I am fine, if uncomfortable.”

“And the blood drinking? You managing that alright?”

“You are not the only one who prepared potions for this mission,” he murmured. “I have it under control, and in the unlikely event that I should lose that control, I assure you, you will be made aware.”

“Very comforting,” said Geralt wryly. “And how-“

Regis covered his mouth with a palm, suddenly going very still and very silent. It took Geralt a moment to register the sound that had prompted this behaviour. A soft shuffling crept in from outside the door. Footsteps, but muffled ones.

Regis cleared his throat. “Little wolf,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. “Onto your other side.”

Geralt obliged, rolling over until he was facing the door, his back to Regis’ chest. Regis wrapped his arms around him, exhaling heavily and nestling his face against the crook of Geralt’s neck. The intimate nature of their position didn’t particularly bother Geralt. He’d had many a friend cling to him during the cooler nights while on the path (Dandelion was particularly prone to it). This was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Get some sleep,” Regis instructed. “My friends are eager to taste you again, and you must look your best.”

Geralt though it impolite to remain silent, so he hesitated, then said, “Yes, sir.”

Regis went unusually quiet and still after that. Perhaps ‘sir’ wasn’t the word to use to address a vampire; Geralt would have to ask about it later, when they were most assuredly alone. He didn’t want to endanger the plan through a simple faux pas.

* * *

After being opened twice, the wound on his wrist would inevitably scar. Just another to add to his expansive collection. He didn’t much care, but he expected Regis would be troubled by it. It was, after all a scar _he_ had created, and Geralt couldn’t imagine he was happy about that.

Geralt started to doze off, rather than meditate, a few hours into the next feast the vampires held. The blood loss made it hard to keep one’s eyes open. He found himself leaning his head into Regis’ thigh, using it as a pillow while Regis stroked his hair with his long fingers. Geralt probably looked quite foolish with his face nearly in Regis’ lap, but he didn’t care; it was hard to care about anything at all after having two quarts of your blood drawn. And besides, Regis’ thigh was proving a comfortable place to lay one’s head.

Regis’ companions were discussing something in the vampiric language. Some of it seemed stilted, which suggested not all of them were fluent, or perhaps were accustomed to speaking in a different dialect. Geralt knew a few words. Enough to have a vague idea of what was being said, but nothing beyond that.

Regis, for the first time since their arrival, stood to leave well before midnight. Geralt suspected it had at least something to do with the fact a witcher was currently falling asleep on his leg.

“Thank you for the feast, my friends,” he said, pulling Geralt up after him. “It’s about time I retired to bed, to get a full night of rest this time. I shall see you all in the morning.”

“Wait up,” said Saul. Geralt remembered his name as he had been among the last of the vampires to introduce himself to Regis. He reached for Geralt, catching hold of his chin and tilting his head this way and that. “You know, he’s not bad looking, and I bet that witcher stamina gets real fun. I’d like to take him to my chambers tonight, if you wouldn’t mind. I imagine his blood must be incredible after some sex.”

Geralt, to say the least, was not pleased with this proposition. He was lucky Regis spoke first, or he might have said something unpropitious.

“While I am happy to share most property, the witcher is not among the things I hand around freely.” He gave an apologetic bow of his head. “He is not trained to please anyone but myself.”

“Oh, come on, Regis,” said Saul. “He can adapt! Witcher’s are good at that, or so I’ve heard.”

“I’m afraid he’ll be too busy serving me tonight to go to your chambers.”

Saul sighed and threw up his hands, releasing Geralt. Geralt unconsciously stepped closer to Regis.

“Could I watch, at least?” asked Saul, his voice developing into a whine. “I want to see just how talented the witcher is.”

“Well, if he’s going to watch,” piqued up Hadrian, fluttering his eyelashes at Regis in a way that was clearly meant to be seductive, but looked rather foolish.

Vampires were far more open about sex than Geralt could have anticipated. It was an effort to keep his face impassive. He expected Regis was having a similarly hard time schooling his own expression.

Instead of answering right away, Regis looped an arm around Geralt’s chest, dragging a hand down over his pecs, toward his navel. Geralt hadn’t realised just how thin his shirt was until he had someone groping him through it. He pressed his lips tight together, watching the journey of Regis’ hand. His heart was thudding in his throat.

“Might you content yourself with listening? I haven’t had an audience in some time.” Regis leaned his face into Geralt’s neck, placing a chaste kiss next to his throat. “He’s not bad looking, I know; certainly more exotic than a mere human, but I am rather tired tonight. I’m not sure how well I would perform, or how well he would perform, for that matter.”

Saul sunk back into his chair. “Very well, Regis. We won’t press. It’s your witcher, after all.”

“Indeed he is, and I shall be using him liberally tonight,” said Regis, drawing his hand from Geralt’s chest to wrap it once more around the chain linking his wrists. He tugged Geralt toward the exit, and Geralt hurried to stumble after him like a dog on a leash. “Enjoy the rest of the feast, my friends.”

“And you enjoy your witcher,” called Hadrian, laughing. “We’ll be trying to too, in the mean time! Don’t make us wait long!”

Regis merely cast him a broad smile, guiding Geralt the rest of the way out into the hall. The walk to Regis’ chambers was a short one, and slightly tense, on Geralt’s part. While he knew Regis wasn’t about to take advantage, he was aware Regis’ friends expected to hear something, perhaps even smell something, (or see something, if they decided to be that crude), and Geralt didn’t relish the thought of humiliating himself by enacting a parody of sex.

They ventured to the edge of Regis’ bed, where Regis proceeded to retrieve a vial of swallow from his bag. He pressed it into Geralt’s hand. “Drink,” he instructed.

Geralt uncorked the concoction and poured it into his mouth. The healing effect was immediate. He slumped slightly as the fatigue abated and the pain in his wrist transitioned into a warm tingling.

Regis took the empty vial from him and put it away, then turned back to Geralt and undid his restraints, dropping them onto the bed. Geralt hadn’t had them off for almost a full twenty four hours and he instinctively rubbed at his wrists, soothing the pink rings encircling them. He didn’t ask Regis why he’d removed them. It wasn’t a _pet’s_ place to question their owner.

As was standard by this point, Regis stripped down to his robe and placed the discarded clothing on the bedside table. Instead of asking Geralt to join him in the bed, however, he gestured to the floor.

“On your knees, little wolf.”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder, at the door, and Regis was quick to pull his head back around.

“No need to be shy. If we have any voyeurs, it’s all in good fun.”

“Sorry,” said Geralt, uncertain of how else to contribute to the conversation. He sunk to his knees before Regis, feeling immensely awkward as he did.

“It’s sorry, ‘sir’, little wolf,” Regis corrected him.

“Sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” Regis swiped a hand through Geralt’s hair. “You always look lovely on your knees,” he murmured, clearly stalling for time. There was unease in the lines of his face, perceptible only by those who knew him well.

Geralt stared forward at the folds of Regis’ robe and considered his options. He could pretend to give the man a blowjob. It wouldn't be the most convincing of acts, but it might be passable provided they weren't being watched or listened to too closely. Geralt could also refuse Regis’ demand and force Regis to evict him from his chambers. This would make Regis out to be a weak trainer, however, and he was sure one of Regis’ brethren would gladly take advantage while Geralt was bound in the basement. That left one last option: to simply go through with the act. It wouldn’t be the first dick Geralt had sucked and this one just happened to be attached to someone he was very fond of. Someone he wouldn’t mind giving pleasure to, regardless of the circumstances under which it was given. If he was going to blow anyone for the sake of maintaining cover, he was relieved it was Regis. 

Regis’ fingers ventured to the nape of his neck and stroked the fine hairs there, looking like he hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do next. Geralt decided then that he would suck Regis’ cock. He didn’t think he could stand kneeling there doing nothing for much longer, and clearly Regis wasn’t comfortable initiating beyond what he already had, so he had to be decisive for the both of them.

He reached beneath Regis’ coat for the belt of his trousers. Shock registered on Regis’ face for a split second before he wrangled control over himself. He forced a smile upon his lips, a toothy, smug sort of smile that didn’t quite fit his scholarly face.

“I’m always happy to please you, sir,” he murmured, just to confirm for Regis that he was willing. He pressed his cheek to Regis’ clothed crotch, his breath skating over the slight bulge there, and looked up at Regis through his lashes.

Regis’ throat bobbed. He couldn’t offer Geralt words of comfort – something that clearly pained Regis, but his thumb traced the curve of Geralt’s jaw, and that slight touch conveyed his affection to Geralt just as well as any words could have. It was all the softness Regis allowed himself, and then he was grasping at Geralt’s hair as-per his role and grinding his arousal against Geralt’s lips.

Geralt couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy the demonstration of control. It was still startling to be put into this position, but, well… he did quite like it when people took the reins; he so often had to do all the work himself in bed that it was always a welcome change of pace. It was part of the reason he had enjoyed lying with Yennefer so much, in fact, who was more proactive about what she wanted than any other bed partner he'd ever had.

“Well, go on, then,” said Regis, his voice low and guttural. “Get on with it, little wolf.”

“Of course, sir,” said Geralt, reaching beneath Regis’ robe to loosen the threads on Regis’ trousers. Regis’ cock was already semi-hard when Geralt pulled it out from his underwear.

Geralt had never seen Regis’ cock. Never so much as seen him without his shirt, in fact. He was beginning to mourn missed opportunities in their Hansa days, because Regis had the sort of cock one could dedicate ballads to. It was heavy, thick, and long, definitely something that would be a feat to get into the back of his throat. He would try regardless, because Geralt of Rivia wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

Wrapping a hand around the base, he began by licking a sloppy stripe along the cock’s underside. He heard Regis exhale in response, his fingers shifting in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt did it again just to see if he could elicit that same sound. It turned out he could. That encouraged him to be bolder, swirling his tongue instead over the sensitive head and using his saliva to apply the occasional stroke to the rest of Regis’ rapidly hardening cock. It’d been a while since he had given a blow job, but he gathered by Regis’ behaviour that he was off to a good start.

He continued to tease the head well beyond the time that would be acceptable for most people, deliberately drawing it out. It was something he suspected most vampires here wouldn’t have put up with. Regis, however, let it go on until he was twitching for need of more stimulation before he finally gave Geralt’s hair an impatient yank. It borderline painful. He looked up at Regis, a flittering, private smirk on his lips.

“Open your mouth,” Regis instructed.

Geralt did as he was told. Regis slid his cock past his open lips, toward his throat, reaching as far back as he could without asphyxiating Geralt. It was a tight fit. The girth of him stretched Geralt’s jaw and filled his entire mouth and throat and lungs with the taste and smell of Regis. He had just enough room to apply some tongue, but beyond that, it was mostly just Regis sliding in and out of him at a steady pace. Hard, but not punishingly so. His cock didn’t reach the soft back of Geralt’s throat, but that was fine; Geralt suspected he’d have trouble swallowing properly in the future if Regis had managed to sheath himself completely.

It was a few minutes into the blowjob and Geralt was already raging hard, but he didn’t touch himself. He knew he would need Regis’ permission for that, if Regis permitted him to come at all (this thought aroused him even more). He kept his hands flat on Regis’ thighs, using them to brace himself as Regis gently fucked his mouth. There might have been people watching, listening, perhaps even smelling just what they were doing, but they might as well have been alone in the castle for all the mind Geralt paid that. It was just him and Regis. Him and Regis. This was the first real reprieve he’d had since coming to this place, and while it was odd that it came from having a cock in his mouth, Geralt had no complaints about that.

Saliva built up around his lips and trickled down his chin. Hair fell over his eyes. His face was flushed and his trousers wouldn’t be thick enough to hide the bulge developing between his legs. He must have looked a mess, and he reveled in that. He sucked Regis in deeper, tonguing the underside of his cock and closing his eyes when Regis groaned and tugged at his hair.

“You’ve such talent,” Regis breathed. “I shall have to reward you for it.”

Geralt looked up at him as best he could, swallowing around Regis’ cock. He could taste salty pre-cum on the back of his tongue.

Regis’ rocking became a little harder, teasing the limits of Geralt’s throat and forcing his jaw to stretch. He could feel that Regis was on the brink and sucked, licked, and swallowed to the best of his ability, to pull him over the precipice with one last surge of pleasure. His efforts were rewarded with a shout and Regis’ fingers fisting against his scalp, white-knuckled and shaking. The thick saltiness of cum spilled into the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, every single drop, and only drew back once Regis had ceased shuddering.

The first thing Geralt did was massage his jaw. It was smarting.

“Sor-“ Regis began to say, but he aborted the apology at the last moment. He gave himself a shake, swallowed several times, and slowly tucked himself back into his trousers. He was rattled. Geralt was a little proud of that. “Little wolf,” he said instead. “I believe I promised you a reward.”

Geralt shifted in place. He wondered if he would be permitted to masturbate. He was desperate to touch himself, his hands twitching as he folded them over his knees.

“I know just what to give you,” Regis murmured, sliding a foot between Geralt’s legs, knocking them apart. The toe of his boot brushed Geralt’s arousal and it was enough to draw forth a groan. “What someone like you deserves,” he finished with a wicked smile.

Geralt planted his hands on the ground, steadying himself. He kept his legs spread and his crotch easily accessible to Regis, like a good pet. He was being debased, debauched, and god – he loved it. When Regis applied light pressure to the bulge of his cock with the sole of his boot, rubbing it through the thin fabric of his trousers, Geralt rolled his hips and whined.

“Do you think you can finish just like this, little wolf?” Regis seemed to be well aware of how his act was affecting Geralt. “Could you do that for me?”

“Y-yeah,” Geralt stammered, digging his nails into the rug as Regis stroked along the outline of his cock.

Regis’ mouth curved and he applied further pressure, grinding his boot over the sensitive head of Geralt’s cock. It was more so the circumstances, rather than the sensations that pulled Geralt toward orgasm. Every word out of Regis’ mouth sent Geralt’s blood surging.

“My pretty wolf,” Regis rumbled. “How lucky I am to have a witcher that submits so beautifully.”

Geralt’s heart raced with impeding orgasm. He bit down on his bottom lip and tore his fingers into the rug, hunching over just as his pleasure peaked. Shivers wracked his body as he sullied his trousers with his seed. It took all of a few seconds for him to finish, and then he focused on sucking air into his lungs. He hadn’t realised he’d held his breath throughout those last few minutes.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an intense orgasm. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, and he was in no mood to examine that at length.

Regis removed his boot. He clucked his tongue in apparent disapproval as he examined the wet patch on Geralt’s crotch.

“Looks like you enjoyed yourself.” He plucked a handkerchief from a pocket and dropped it into Geralt’s lap, indicating Geralt’s stain with a finger. “Catch your breath and clean that up. I don’t want you in my bed covered in ejaculation.”

It took Geralt a few seconds to find his voice. “Yes, sir.”

Once Geralt had cleaned off, they crawled into bed together and Regis returned the restraints to Geralt’s wrists. They couldn’t risk someone seeing Geralt without them. They lay down under the covers and Regis held him to his chest, tracing idle patterns into his clavicle with a thumb.

He appeared to want to say something. His lips were parted against Geralt’s ear, twitching minutely. After several long seconds of silence, he seemed to think better of whatever it was he had been about to say and close his mouth. He instead kissed Geralt’s ear, very chastely.

They fell asleep there, holding each other. Or Geralt did, at least.

* * *

Come morning, Regis had Geralt sit on the edge of the bed and applied bites to his neck and jaw. They were small, relatively painless bites that left glossy pink marks on Geralt’s pallid skin, and Geralt quite liked both how they felt and how they looked. They had a practical purpose; to further emphasise Regis’ dominance over Geralt and dissuade any from trying to impeach on it, but Geralt enjoyed them all the same.

He was given new clothes to dress in, presumably taken from former residents of the castle. They were a little tight, but comfortable enough that Geralt managed to refrain from picking at the fabric at his armpits and crotch. A good thing, too, as he was sure the vampires would have rebuked him for such behaviour.

He spent most of the day trailing after Regis rather than sitting in the room. He did what he was asked without question, regardless of how humiliating it was, and said not a word unless Regis indicated he wished Geralt to speak. When it came time for meals, he sat down at Regis’ feet, as was customary, and accepted any morsels Regis handed him under the table. Sometimes he licked Regis’ fingers, teasing and sensual, but not to the point of it being conspicuous. He didn’t need the other residents of the castle leering at him any more than they already were.

Subsequent days were much the same. The only change in routine was the occasional use of him for drink. The days he was requested held no consistency, so he could never anticipate when exactly he would be called upon. Granted, even if he had known, it wouldn’t have made much difference. It was an unpleasant experience regardless of his ability to guess when it would happen.

Regis, at least, seemed to be developing a rapport with the younger vampires. They were increasingly seeking his company outside of dinners, both for conversation and for advice, and once or twice, even to proposition him (which Regis politely turned down). It had only been three weeks by Geralt’s count and the fact Regis had managed to forge a positive reputation for himself within that time was promising. He always had been a persuasive speaker, and apparently his long-windedness was more appreciated among his own kind.

Geralt had to wonder if there was some pleasure for Regis in being among fellow vampires, even if the purpose for their presence wasn’t a pleasant one. He had lamented not fitting in with humans to Geralt, and he had lamented that his efforts had ostracised him from his own kind, and perhaps living in a pack for the first time in decades was familiar and comfortable for him, perhaps even nostalgic. He would have liked to ask him about it, but in the current circumstances, that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. Especially as the vampires had grown so comfortable with Regis that they would periodically walk into his chambers without knocking.

He found himself increasingly longing to speak to Regis. They exchanged words on occasion, certainly, but it was under the pretence of being master and slave, and there was little dialogue to exchange in such roles. He missed hearing Regis’ voice, too. His _real_ voice, not the one he put on for the benefit of the other vampires. After hearing him talk like a complete asshole for two weeks, Geralt would have gladly listened to one of Regis’ spiels, even one that featured a subject he wasn’t at all interested in. Regis’ voice had been so soothing, so soft, and Geralt hadn’t realised just how comforting he had found it until it had been replaced with something that consistently carried a tone of aggression and superiority.

But they exchanged furtive touches and glances whenever possible, full of affection and trust, and for now, that would have to suffice as communication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> [Beautiful art](https://kyuume.tumblr.com/post/185347023461/this-is-a-little-fanart-i-did-for-the-regisxgeralt) made by Kyuume on Tumblr!


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, so, this sure took me a long time to get around to. Apologies for that. I've been so distracted by other things that I just haven't had the motivation to write/edit (which means I've written... exactly one fic since posting this one, unfortunately). Hopefully I'll get back into the writing groove later. For now, have my apologies and this final chapter!
> 
> Warning for this one: it contains some corporal punishment and humiliation.

On days where Geralt wasn’t bled, he was instead made to wait on the vampires. The vampires would drag him up from Regis’ side and press a tray into his hands, instructing him to deliver food and drink to whoever hailed for him. This was humiliating, but still preferable to sitting on the ground. At least while he was playing waiter he didn’t have to deal with pins and needles in his legs.

He would usually end up walking back and forth through the dining room for several hours at a time. On this particular night, the merrymaking had begun earlier than usual and was proceeding well past midnight, so he approximated it to be somewhere around his fifth hour of playing waiter. A normal man’s feet might have started to ache by now, but Geralt, who had spent the bulk of his life on his feet, felt nothing; he could have walked for two days straight without showing signs of fatigue (something he knew from experience). 

The ease with which he performed the task didn’t mean he was spared the possibility of mistakes, however. This became apparent to all when one of the vampires pulled out their chair just as Geralt was passing, and Geralt, naturally, started to swing out of the way to avoid being struck. Instead of evading further mishap, he ended up sending a goblet full of blood spilling onto the neck of one of elder vampires. It slid in thick, messy rivulets down into the vampires shirt, turning the white a brilliant red and eliciting a variety of startled sounds. Geralt didn’t quite know what to do, so he simply stood and watched while the vampire leapt out of his chair and gazed down at the mess with an expression of shock and contempt.

“You clumsy fool,” he said, turning on Geralt. “Look at this mess you’ve made! Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“Sorry?” Geralt offered.

This clearly wasn’t the response the vampire wanted, as he leapt closer, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. “Don’t be so blasé, human. Respect your betters, or they might just decide you aren’t worth keeping around.”

Regis stood from his chair, the legs screeching along the floor. “I’ll deal with him, Cassian. I’ll take him to the basement-”

“Let me rough him up a little first,” interrupted Cassian. “I’ll wipe that smug look off his face.”

Geralt was trying his hardest to look guilty. Evidently, he wasn’t doing a very good job.

“Come now,” said another vampire. Geralt glanced over to him, identifying the owner of the voice as a tall, red-headed vampire named Marcus. “The witcher belongs to Regis. It’s not our place to punish him.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” said Regis, giving a slight incline of his head. “He will be punished thoroughly for his inability to perform a basic task, I assure you.”

Cassian reluctantly returned to his chair, squeezing blood out of his shirt as he sat. “You’d best do it here, then. So I can watch.”

“I don’t have any tools here,” said Regis, and the slightest twitch of his hands betrayed his discomfort – to Geralt, at least. “And, in any case, I’ve no desire to bring pause to our merrymaking. Certainly not for the simple task of chastising a pet.”

“I’m sure you’d be able to make it entertaining, Regis.” Marcus winked and slung an arm over the back of his chair. “Saul, why don’t you give him your cane? It’s good and sturdy, no?”

“Oh, yes,” said Saul, hurrying to comply. “Of course.”

The cane he retrieved from the floor was forged of an unfamiliar metal. It gleamed brilliantly under the candlelight as Saul handed it to Regis, who accepted the offering after a moments hesitation. Regis glanced at Geralt, and Geralt glanced back, and he tried to look as calm as possible so to reassure Regis. Whether or not his efforts worked was impossible to tell. Regis had fallen smoothly back into his role as Geralt’s owner.

Marcus turned around in his chair and watched Regis raptly as Regis approached Geralt. Geralt tightened his jaw, keeping his eyes on the ground, his ears perked for Regis’ instructions.

“So, gentlemen,” he said, making a sharp gesture with the cane. It cut the air with a loud _swish_. “How many should he receive? Twenty, perhaps?”

Cassian snorted. “Come now, Regis! He’s a witcher. Twenties a pittance.”

“You are correct, of course,” said Regis, laughing lightly. “Thirty?”

“It should be at least thirty-five,” Cassian suggested.

Regis nodded. “As you are the one who suffered for his incompetence, it’s only fair that you get the deciding number.” He reached over to Geralt with the cane, gently tapping his knuckles. “Put the tray on the table.”

Geralt did as he was told and then resumed standing before Regis. He wasn’t worried. The embarrassment of being chastised like a child would undoubtedly be worse than any pain Regis could dish out.

“Extend your hands,” said Regis. “Palms up.”

Geralt did so. He grit his teeth so to not make a sound. 

A momentary silence engulfed the room. It made the whistling of the cane being brought down especially loud, hissing in Geralt’s ears. The impact was even more so, sending a crack reverberating through Geralt’s skull. Pain blossomed in Geralt’s left palm, hot and vivid, but he managed to remain silent and still despite this.  

“I hope,” said Regis, bringing the cane down again, this time right next to the thin red line rising on Geralt’s pale skin. “This will serve as a reminder to be more careful.”

It took Geralt a moment to respond. The pain wasn't too bad, but the humiliation choked his words, made all the blood rush to his facial capillaries. “It will, sir," he eventually ground out. 

His hands were going to be sore and throbbing by the time this was over. He expected the next few days to be uncomfortable ones.

After the third stroke, Regis proceeded onto his other hand. He placed three vertical strikes across his palm, ensuring not an inch of the skin wasn’t left throbbing and red. Though Regis had avoided his fingers, and quite pointedly at that, Geralt found the application of the cane had left them aching and resistant to movement anyway.

Regis indicated he could withdraw with a wave of an arm. Geralt immediately did so, curling his hands into loose fists and hissing at the sting this produced. The ache was nowhere near as bad as some of the injuries he had received on the path, but uncomfortable? Certainly.

“Now,” said Regis. “Turn your back to me and get on your knees.”

Geralt tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t being watched by at least twenty vampires as he descended to the floor. The position, though not unfamiliar, and often welcome in a sexual context, was enough to make him blush even darker. Or blush to the full extent that his damaged facial capillaries could manage, anyway.

Regis came to stand at his side. Geralt’s peripheral vision was limited to Regis’ long legs, which seemed much longer and sturdier than usual from his current position.

The cane rolled down the slope of his shoulders. Geralt stiffened in anticipation for what was to come next.

Regis didn’t need to announce what he was going to do for Geralt to realise he wasn’t going to be able to sleep on his back for the next week. He held his breath, and he waited.

His breath remained lodged in his lungs as the cane came down on his back, crossing over his shoulder blades and sending a roaring pain through bone and muscle. His head dropped low, his hair obscuring the pinched expression on his face. He’d experienced a lot of pain in his life, more than what was conceivable to the average person, but that didn’t make pain any less unpleasant to deal with. It didn’t help that the vampires were laughing at his discomfort, behaving as though this were the highest form of entertainment.

He noticed that some of the vampires, probably the oldest ones, did not laugh along with their companions, but nor did they try to bring an end to the punishment. They were content to sit and watch in silence, even if torture was – apparently – not something they partook in.

The next three strokes came down just as hard as the first, and Geralt found himself gasping despite his best efforts to remain silent. It was simply too much to take with a stony face, even for a witcher.

The pain only got worse with each application of the cane. When it crossed over earlier welts, the pain laced through his nerves, cutting down his calm façade and sending him tottering toward the floor. It took great effort not to collapse in a heap, and it was only Regis grabbing him by the back of the shirt and pulling him upright that prevented him from folding over his knees.

He curled his nails into his thighs to try and distract himself from the hellfire that was his back. Regis was still going, not letting up, though Geralt was sure he very much wanted to. They were somewhere in the twenties. Geralt had stopped counting after the thirteenth hit.

“My, witcher’s really are resilient, aren’t they,” commented Marcus, chuckling. “If you did this to a human, they would be begging for mercy by now.”

“Are you almost done, Regis?” asked Hadrian. He sighed and picked at a plate of sausages and cheese. “I’m getting bored, and you all seem too busy watching the witcher to talk. I have a topic I want to cover tonight.”

Geralt could feel the next strike in his teeth, rattling his molars. He let out an unsteady breath.

“We’re at twenty-seven, I believe,” said Marcus. “So two more, then you can divulge whatever it is you’re so desperate to tell us.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _desperate_...”

Two more. Geralt was relieved. He wasn’t sure how many more he could have taken while maintaining his position. As it was, he expected to fall shortly after they were done. His back was too sore and his weight too great for him to remain upright.

Geralt groaned softly as the last two strikes were applied across the small of his back. He was going to bruise. His entire back was going to bruise, in fact, and it would probably be weeks before he was able to sit comfortably.

The cane was handed back to Saul. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt spied a smattering of blood on the glinting metal. The throbbing that engulfed his back made it impossible to pin-point where exactly he’d been wounded.

He slowly brought his palms to the floor, holding himself awkwardly upright while Regis spoke merrily with his companions. It seemed a long time before he was made to resume sitting at Regis’ side. To his great relief, Regis allowed him to lean against his leg, his head on Regis’ thigh. It was the smallest possible reprieve from his pain, but it was better than nothing.

Instead of giving him food, Regis surreptitiously provided him with sips of wine (they served both that and blood at dinner, though the wine was rarely touched). Geralt slowed his heartbeat so to make the alcohol linger in his system. While it didn’t blot out the pain completely, it numbed his nerves just enough to make the following several hours tolerable.

They sat like that until the early hours of the morning, at which point Regis announced that he ought to retire to bed, least he end up sleeping through the obligations he had that morning. Geralt winced the entire way back to their room.

Once inside, Regis retrieved a vial of swallow from his shoulder bag and poured the contents into Geralt’s mouth.

A familiar, warm tingling spread throughout his body. It gathered around the expanse of his back and drove away the worst of the pain there. It was like a blanket, warm and relieving, and Geralt was finally – for the first time since being punished – able to relax his aching muscles.

Regis didn’t say anything to comfort him. Couldn’t say anything, really, because they might be overheard. In lieu of words, he lightly touched his fingers to Geralt’s cheek, offering Geralt a fleeting smile.

The warmth in his face fell away as Regis withdrew. “Lie down, little wolf.” He gestured to the bed. “I need to apply salt water, least you end up getting an infection. You humans are devilishly easy to kill, inadvertently and otherwise.”

Geralt obeyed, lowering himself to the mattress and burying his face into a pillow. He remained there while Regis prepared the bucket of salt water. He expected this to be unpleasant, extremely unpleasant, but the salt water would help with the healing process. Even witcher’s couldn’t rely on swallow potions alone to deal with their injuries.

Regis hitched Geralt’s shirt up over his shoulders and applied a sopping wet cloth to Geralt’s back. There weren’t a lot of open wounds, thankfully, but the sting was still enough to prompt Geralt to bite down on the pillow.  He might have liked doing that, under different circumstances. But they wouldn’t be exploring those until after this damned contract was done.

He was sure, once they were out of here, Regis would be eager to show him a good time.

While Regis cleaned and dressed his back, he exerted as much composure as could be expected from one who had just been beaten. There was a whimper here and there, muffled by the pillow, but little else. Geralt was practised at dealing with pain. Pain much worse than this, in fact.

Regis made quick work of cleaning and dressing his back. Once done, he lay down in bed beside Geralt, on his side, and gently grasped Geralt by the chin. He manoeuvred Geralt’s head until it was perfectly in line with his own.

“Little wolf,” he said softly. “I want you to go to sleep.”

There was a strange glint in Regis’ irises, something red that compelled Geralt to yawn and lower his eyelids. The room blurred. He opened his mouth and tried to speak; to say what exactly, he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t get to find out what a lack of inhibitions would prompt him to say as he fell asleep before he could get out more than a grunt.

* * *

Having slept longer than his usual four to five hours, Geralt awoke hot and disorientated the following morning. It took him a moment to recover his bearings, and when he did, he realised that Regis had used one of his vampiric abilities on him. That surprised him; he’d thought he, a mutant, would be immune, but evidently he was just as susceptible to Regis’ abilities as any other human. 

He had the opportunity to refuse Regis’ help the following night. He could have broken their gaze, had he really wanted to – but he didn’t. While not an entirely pleasant experience, being forced to sleep was a great deal better than spending the entire night kept awake by the miserable throbbing in his back. He could feel that throbbing in his very bone marrow. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to get a wink of rest without Regis forcing sleep upon him, so he didn’t complain. Not that he was in any position to.

If the other vampires noticed Regis’ mercy, they didn’t comment upon it. Nor did they protest when Regis announced that he would be keeping Geralt in his bedroom for the foreseeable future for the purpose of training. That they accepted Regis’ decisions so easily was reassuring; it meant that, not only were they convinced of his and Regis’ dynamic, but they trusted Regis’ judgement. This ordeal couldn’t last that much longer.

They did, on occasion, have to give the impression that there was some kind of training. For the most part, it consisted of blowjobs and Regis saying filthy things that made Geralt’s blood swelter. He was always raging hard by the time they were done, and Regis would always get him off with the sole of his shoe, grinding it down on his cock and murmuring about how pathetic Geralt was, how wantonly he was debasing himself, how low he’d been brought. Geralt always came with a shudder and a groan. He came like a whore instead of a witcher, and he _loved_ it. He didn’t quite understand why, and nor did he care to examine the reason for long, but he always looked forward to getting on his knees before Regis.

When they were alone, well and truly alone, Regis would risk touching him gently and lovingly; stroking his face and hair and chest, casting him looks full of warmth and reverence. If there was one good thing to have come out of the ordeal of being made to play servant and master, it was the realisation that their affection for each other transcended that of friendship.

Geralt had been sleeping alone in his bed since breaking things off with Yennefer. Perhaps that would change in the near future.

* * *

It was a week after the application of the cane that Geralt was finally permitted to leave the bedroom. To his great confusion, Regis didn’t take him to the dining room. He instead hauled Geralt through the keep and down some stairs, at the bottom of which he deposited Geralt in a vacant cell. This was all done rather unceremoniously and Geralt was still struggling to gather his bearings as Regis secured his wrists to a set of shackles suspended from the ceiling.

“I’ll be back later, little wolf,” said Regis, turning and taking his leave. Geralt opened his mouth to call after him, but he was out of sight before he could think of how to phrase his question without it coming across as disrespectful.

The first thing he should have thought about was what exactly Regis was planning, because Regis wouldn’t subject him to the basement without a good reason. Instead, he found himself wondering what he had done wrong, what the other vampires might be angry at him for. An irrational thought, as he'd been in the bedroom all this time, so what could he have possibly done to earn this? Clearly being subservient to them was having an impact on him, making him paranoid.  

The moment he recognised those thoughts for what they were, he shook them from his mind and instead turned his attention to his surroundings. He wanted to check what had changed in his absence.

Most of the other cells were empty, he noticed. There was a human here or there, some pale and on deaths door, some peachy skinned and wide eyed, but it looked as though the vampires hadn’t gone hunting in a while. Geralt hoped this was a result of Regis’ influence, and not just because they were biding their time before abducting a fresh set of victims.

One thing was for certain: the vampires were taking Regis’ advice on board regarding how to treat their human cattle. There was now bedding in the cells, along with water and food and a few books. None were tied down. It was progress. Minor progress, but progress all the same.

They had also put a woman and man together in a cell, which was… less ideal as progress went. The vampires were going to end up disappointed, Geralt was sure, because the man and woman were resolutely ignoring each other. Regis’ peers didn’t seem to understand that merely putting a male and female human in close proximity to each other didn’t mean they would mate and produce offspring. Regis was probably reluctant to correct their mistakes; he wouldn’t want them too proficient at getting humans to do what they wanted.

Geralt lay his head back against the brick and closed his eyes. There was no food, water, nor bedding in his cell, so this was probably intended as punishment. He was sure Regis would fill him in for what purpose the moment it was safe enough to do so. Even down in the dark, dank basement, it was entirely possible to be overheard, to be eavesdropped on, so he expected to wait a few days before finding out the purpose for his discomfort.

Until then, he would meditate. There was little else he _could_ do.

He closed his eyes and he drifted, just as he had done numerous times since arriving at the keep. He didn’t dream. He merely drifted along, his mind blank, so disconnected from reality that he could neither hear nor feel his surroundings. Periodically, a vampire would wake him to shove food and water down his gullet, but that was the extent of his activity while in the cell.

For three days, there was no sign of Regis. He neither heard his voice, nor saw him. He didn’t smell him either, for that matter, despite the scent of herbs that continued to waft off him.

On the forth day, he was startled out of his meditation by a hand on his cheek. His first instinct was to snap his teeth like a frightened dog, ready to rip and tear should that touch progress into something intimate. But his pupils dilated and he saw through the dark that it was _Regis_ couched before him, not a potential assailant.

He relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” Regis murmured. He spoke quietly, and fast. “I must be quick. Over the next month or so, I will send an inebriated companion down to draw from you. I need you to find some means of discreetly removing the cell key from their person. Your hands will be released from the ceiling for this task, but the shackles will remain.”

Geralt nodded to indicate he understood.

“Once you have that key, wait until my companions have retired to bed and get yourself and these other humans out of here. There are no guards, so this should not be too difficult a task.”

Geralt nodded again.

“That’s all.” Regis very chastely brushed his lips over Geralt’s jaw, beside his ear. His skin was surprisingly warm, perhaps from all the blood he had been consuming as of late. “Be careful, for I will have to blow my cover should you be caught with the keys or during your escape.”

“I will be,” Geralt murmured back, so quiet that he wasn’t sure Regis heard him at all. He started to turn his head to claim a kiss from Regis, seeking the comfort of intimacy, but Regis withdrew before he could bring their lips together. He frowned, and Regis looked apologetically down at him.

“Later,” Regis mouthed as he unlatched Geralt’s shackles from the chain trailing down from the ceiling.

It was a relief to finally lower his arms. The lack of circulation to his extremities had begun to take its toll, leaving his hands stiff and white as bone. He couldn’t move them properly when they fell into his lap, couldn’t so much as curl his fingers into a loose fist. It was as though someone had replaced bone and muscle with sand. What little movement he was able to compel caused him discomfort. It was going to be a day or two before he was able to attempt to retrieve the keys.

Regis exited the cell. Geralt watched him slip upstairs and out of sight, then started to roll his shoulders to encourage blood back into his fingers.

* * *

The inebriated vampires came, just as Regis had said they would. On stumbling feet, they would stick their key into the lock (after missing a few times, of course), throw open the cell door, and lumber their way over to where Geralt was kneeling. They always carried a barrel and a knife. The knife presumably because they were too drunk to risk using their teeth; they might accidentally sever something serious in their hunger, making a waste of a unique source of drink.

Geralt could tell the level of intoxication from their appearance. Most vampires that were sent down to him were mildly flushed and wobbly, but there was the occasional other that had clearly entered the amnesic stage of intoxication, where they had peachy, flushed skin and bloodshot eyes. It was an incredibly human look, through it was an effect ruined by the blood typically smudged around their lips.

They were surprisingly careful while drawing blood from Geralt. They never dug too deep with the knife, nor nicked anything vulnerable. It occurred to Geralt that this was probably because they had done this so many times now that it was all pure instinct. Just like Geralt knew how to swing a sword no matter how much alcohol he’d packed away, the vampires knew how to bleed a human.

He didn’t try taking the keys the first few times he was visited. He couldn’t with his hands in the state that they were in. He had to wait until they regained full mobility before making his first attempt. Which – as many first attempts did – failed to reap results. He’d had low expectations, so he wasn’t terribly put out by this.

His next attempt came a week after the first, at which point he was becoming fatigued from blood loss. Regis hadn’t found an opportunity to give him swallow, and so he found his body struggling to accommodate the massive drop in blood volume. He didn’t manage to get the key this time either, in part because of how very tired he was, fighting against wave after wave of dizziness.

Regis discreetly gave him swallow with his water the next time he came to the basement. It was diluted, but it helped recover some of his previous strength.

The third attempt passed just as fruitlessly as the prior two. By the forth, he knew he was going to have to try something new or he’d die of hypovolemic shock before he managed to retrieve the key. There was too little proximity between himself and his target to enable him to discreetly grab the key. He needed the vampire to come _closer_.

He achieved this in a rather traditional way: through flirting. The vampire that came to retrieve him on that particular day was inebriated enough to have surrendered rational thought. After Geralt had made his desires clear, the vampire didn’t think twice before burying his fingers into Geralt’s hair and mouthing Geralt’s neck, his arousal pressed against Geralt’s knee. He ground himself slowly against Geralt, kissing and licking his pale skin, drawing him closer while Geralt carefully extracted the keys from his belt.

Geralt had had worse things done to him for the sake of a job. Regardless, the moment he had that key, he kicked the vampire off him with all the force he could muster. They went stumbling backwards, cartwheeling their arms, and it took them several long seconds to find their feet in their inebriated state. The moment they had, they retaliated by striking Geralt upside the head with a fist. The strike had enough force behind it that Geralt's skull went slamming into the brick and he lost consciousness.

A ferocious pounding had engulfed the back of his head when he awoke some time later. There was no doubt a lump there, though he didn’t dare check with how tender his scalp felt. There was probably some blood, too, with how slick the nape of his neck was. He groaned softly and peeled open his eyes, dilating his pupils to better see through the dark. There was no time to assess his injury; he needed to find the key, assuming it was still in the cell with him. It certainly wasn’t in his hand anymore.

He skated his fingers along the ground in search of his liberation, and to his great relief, he found the key sitting beside him. For a moment there, he’d feared it had been seen and taken, but evidently the vampire had been too drunk to notice the absence of the cell keys.

Geralt’s next task was to listen for activity upstairs, which proved difficult while his head was throbbing so madly. It was hard for him to make anything out over the headache beating in his hears, but what little he did hear – or didn’t hear, rather – was enough for him to determine that the vampires had left the dining room. Even at the end of the festivities, they were never so quiet that Geralt wouldn’t at least hear the occasional thump or mutter.

He unlocked the door. It opened with a creak that made Geralt wince. Fortunately, it appeared only he and the other humans had heard it.

A woman who had her face pressed between the bars opened her mouth to speak. Geralt silenced her with a gesture of his hand. She fell quiet again and very still. The other captives followed suit, looking expectantly at Geralt.

He was relieved to find the key opened all the cell doors. The captives filed out and gathered around Geralt in a nervous cluster, shivering and twitching, glancing about them like skittish animals. Some were so weak that their legs shook under their weight. Geralt expected he would need to carry at least one man out. The others, provided they moved fast, ought to last until they found transport back into town.

With the keep as dark as it was, it was left to Geralt to act as navigator. The captives trailed behind him, holding hands to ensure none of them got lost. One of them held onto the back of Geralt’s shirt, and Geralt let them; they were less likely to go running into a set of ornamental armour while doing that.

He glanced into the dining room before they ventured past. There was only one vampire inside, and they were draped over the table with their face shoved into their forearms. Nothing to worry about. The vampires must’ve had a busy night. And they ought to have, considering how much blood they had taken from Geralt over the past month.

They walked slowly down the hall and to the front doors, which Geralt very gingerly eased open. It only creaked a little. Not enough to wake someone, he was sure.

Everyone filed out into the night and breathed a sigh of relief. They weren’t home free yet, however. The gate was closed. They were either going to need to scale the wall or open it, and Geralt doubted he could do the latter without rousing some unwanted attention.

“I need a minute to figure this out,” he murmured. He and Regis hadn’t discussed what they were to do at this point of the escape.

“The lifting mechanism is just there, near the gate,” said one of the escapees, gesturing to a switch attached to a wall.

“I know,” said Geralt. He considered it at length. “But it’ll make sound, and I’m not going to be able to fight off thirty vampires.”

“Oh,” said the escapee.

Another piqued up. “What about rope? There’s some rope over there we could use.”

“It’ll need a hook,” said Geralt as he retrieved the rope from atop a barrel, coiling it around his forearm. It couldn’t do much for them on its own, but it was a start.

“What if we tied a rock to it?” asked a twitchy, grey-haired man.

“A rock isn’t going to be able to withstand our weight,” said Geralt. He picked his way through various items sprawled across the grass, among which were maces and swords and bits of armor. Nothing terribly useful. If worst came to worse, he would use the sword to fend off any curious vampires.

One of the escapees – a young man with cropped black hair and a goatee – burst into tears. Geralt glanced over his shoulder at him and sighed.

“I’m going to find a way out,” he said, though his tone of voice probably wasn’t very reassuring. He wasn’t great at comforting people. “Stop crying. I just need some time.”

“We-we don’t have time,” the man blubbered. His behaviour was clearly affecting the others, who were shifting from foot to foot and glancing nervously about them, their shoulders stiff and their faces pale.  

Geralt ceased searching. If he wanted to prevent mass panic, he needed to act now. “Calm down,” he said, which wasn’t usually conducive to calming people down, but it was an instinctive demand to make. He picked up one of the swords. “I’ll make this into a hook-“

“How?” asked they grey-haired man from earlier. “By bending it? I know witcher’s are powerful, but there was never no mention of you lot being able to bend steel.”

The volume of his voice was rising. Geralt made a sharp gesture to silence him, then did the sign for Igni and coiled his hand around the mid-section of the blade. A chorus of oh’s rose up from his company.  

It was a struggle to get the steel to bend without breaking, and even more so to secure a second sword to the blade to create a grappling hook of sorts. The end result wasn’t perfect; it was unlikely it would support any amount of weight for long, but that was fine. It only needed to last long enough for Geralt to scale the wall, and then he would hold the other end and heave the others up and over (he doubted most of them would be able to make it over on their own).

It took him six tries to get his makeshift grappling hook to catch on something. Once it had, he gave it several hard pulls to check that it was secure, then tentatively climbed a foot off the ground.

The grappling hook held. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I want the weakest of you to come first,” said Geralt. “And those who’ll be able to scale on their own to go last. _Don’t_ try to push and shove. Got it?”

Some of the captives nodded, others murmured assent under their breaths. It was enough of an affirmative for Geralt.

“If you’re too weak to climb,” said Geralt. “I’ll pull you up. Just give the rope three tugs. I’ll catch you on the other side.”

He scaled the wall fast and easily, dropping down to the other side. Typically, he wouldn’t leap from such heights, but they had no time to lose, and they’d dawdled for too long as it was. Vampires didn’t need a lot of sleep. A few of them would be waking before sunrise and he could tell from the colour of the sky that they were nearing morning.

The first four people relied upon Geralt to reach the other side of the wall. The rest were able to make it on their own, though Geralt still had to help them down the other side of the wall without hurting their legs. With everyone over, the rest of the escape proceeded without issue. They walked down a long, winding dirt track until they reached a trading cart, which directed them to a nearby inn, the owner of which was reluctant to give them free food and water and only yielded to Geralt’s request for help when he mentioned he was on official business for the Duchess.

They spent the day sitting in that inn, waiting and nervously glancing out of the windows. But the only people that appeared on the road were Toussaint residents and traders.

By the following evening, they had all made it back safely to Beauclair. Families and friends were reunited with their loved ones. The Duchess gave Geralt his fee and extended her heartfelt gratitude, which was witnessed by enough people that Geralt expected he would soon be shedding his reputation as a failure. All in all, not a terrible contract. He’d achieved a happy ending.

Well, presumably. He would refrain from celebrating until Regis was safely back with him.

BB greeted him with palpable relief when Geralt stepped foot in Corvo Bianco for the first time in over two months. He had explained what he was doing prior to leaving Corvo Bianco, explained that he may be gone for weeks, perhaps even months, but evidently BB had worried about his absence anyway. It was a touching gesture of loyalty, though Geralt didn’t relish the twenty minutes he spent reassuring BB that, despite looking a little pale and fatigued, he was perfectly fine and really didn’t need to see a healer.

He had his own methods of rejuvenation: a night cap and sleep. Unsurprisingly, he ended up sleeping well into the following morning, and remained lying in bed with a book some hours after waking. He’d had a rough two months. He deserved some R&R.

* * *

A week passed. Regis didn’t return.

By the end of that week, Geralt had started to envision all sorts of terrible scenarios as explanation for Regis’ absence. These were completely irrational, and he knew it; Regis was perfectly capable of looking after himself, even more so than Geralt, in fact, but Geralt couldn’t stop fretting no matter how adamantly he told himself that Regis was fine. His mind simply wouldn’t give him rest.

His concern had increased significantly by the second week of Regis’ absence, and by the third, he was considering returning to the castle (an idea he ultimately deemed stupid). BB noticed his growing unease and tried to help him de-stress by offering books and simple, easy tasks about the vineyard.

Geralt still found himself thinking of Regis despite BB’s efforts. Could the vampires have overpowered him? Could they have imprisoned him? Tesham Mutna was testament to the fact that vampires had no problems with incarcerating and torturing their own. If they had realised Regis’ role in the escape of their blood mules, just how far would they go to express their discontent?

He felt much the same way he had when Ciri had gone missing (twice, now): anxious, helpless, irritable. Regis hadn’t gone missing, per se; he was sure Regis knew exactly what he was doing, but Geralt was having a hell of a time convincing himself of that. His every attempt to reason with himself was like talking to a brick wall. His hind-brain had made up its mind about whether or not Regis was in danger.

A month passed, and still there was no Regis. Geralt went by the cemetery Regis holed up in on occasion to see if the man had made a return. Thus far, the only thing occupying the place were spiders, which Geralt disposed of in the hope it would make moving back in a slightly less unpleasant ordeal for Regis. The place hadn’t really looked occupied even with Regis living there, but now it looked as though no one had stepped foot in the crypt for years. Everything was covered in dust, spiderwebs, and insects. Regis’ belongings were smothered. Geralt had to transfer his books and equipment to the spare bedroom of Corvo Bianco just to ensure they wouldn’t be damaged. This, he supposed, was what happened when one chose to dwell in as dark, dank, and dirty a place as a cemetery.

The wine making season arrived half-way through the following month, and it couldn’t have come at a better time for Geralt. It proved a much-needed distraction. While he didn’t do a _lot_ of work, learning how to make wine was a task in and of itself, and it was much more complex than he had initially assumed. He had to learn how to choose the best barrels to age the wine in, when to pick the grapes, how to release the juices, what additions to give each barrel – it was a lot, and it kept his mind occupied late into the night. He still thought of Regis during lulls of activity, wondering where he was and if he was safe, but BB made sure he didn’t do this for long. He recognised when Geralt got pensive and would usher him to the next available task before his worries could hook him.

“You really mustn’t worry,” said BB one late evening, while they were finishing up work on the latest batch of wine. Geralt had insisted on closing the barrels himself. He wanted his workers to go home and eat some dinner and get some rest. They’d been working very hard. “From what you’ve told me of this friend of yours, they’re well able to handle themselves. I’m sure they’ll return in due time.”

“Thanks, BB,” said Geralt, offering him the slightest of smiles.

BB turned out to be entirely right. Regis simply appeared one afternoon on his doorstep, dressed in his usual wear and with not a hair out of place. It was as though he hadn’t left Toussaint at all. Geralt wasn’t quite sure what to do as Regis stood in his doorway with a broad smile, but fortunately, Regis took the initiative and drew him into a hard hug. Geralt folded his arms over Regis’ back and returned the hug, squeezing just as hard. 

“It’s good to see you,” was all he managed to choke out.

Regis seemed amused by this. “And you too, Geralt.” He stroked Geralt’s back, his nails dragging on Geralt’s shirt. “You seem well,” he continued, drawing back just enough to look Geralt up and down. “There were no lasting injuries from your time on the outskirts, I hope?”

“Far as I can tell, I’m in full health,” said Geralt. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

“With my fellows,” said Regis. He lightly patted Geralt’s shoulder. “I had to stay long enough to convince them to go elsewhere. Which is to say, Dettlaff now has some much-needed company, and I feel he will be a good influence on them.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “You sure about that? He killed hundreds.”

“Which is something he feels terribly for,” said Regis. “Now that he’s had time to calm down. In fact, he spoke of wishing that we had…” A swallow. Regis didn’t seem able to continue. “Why don’t you invite me inside? Those sandwich platters Marlene’s has set out look delectable.”

“Oh, right.” He drew Regis inside, out of sight and earshot of his employees, and closed the door. He directed him to sit in a chair before speaking again. “Are you well, Regis?”

Regis’ spread his hands, giving Geralt a look of his body. “Me? I’m quite fine, of course. Us vampires are hard to inflict lasting damage on, as I’m sure you well know.”

“That’s not the kind of harm I’m talking about,” said Geralt, dropping into a chair of his own. “Drinking blood, being made to harm innocent people, _and_ me… can’t imagine that was easy for you, and I can’t imagine it’s something you’re gonna get over in a day.”

“You’re right,” said Regis. He folded his arms over the table, leaning over them. “But given time, I will recover from my deeds, just as you will recover from seeing me behave in such an abhorrent manner.”

“Well…” Geralt shrugged a shoulder. “It wasn’t all bad.”

“No?” Regis smiled knowingly. “I’m glad you think so. Nonetheless, I’m- I’m terribly sorry for what was done to your back, and the way I was made to treat you.”

“You don’t need to be sorry for it. I asked you to do those things.”

“I truly do need to apologise, Geralt,” said Regis. “And I need to know you do not think differently of me.”

“I do,” said Geralt, which prompted Regis’ brow to furrow and his eyes to widen. “Not in a bad way,” Geralt quickly amended, dragging his chair before Regis and sitting down close enough for their knees to brush. He cupped a hand over Regis’ thigh. “What I mean is, I wouldn’t be averse to re-enacting some of the things that went on in that castle. The ones that involved me being on my knees, specifically…” Geralt’s face started to warm. That had been a brazen announcement. One he probably should have given more thought before speaking, if only to make it less embarrassing for the both of them.

When he glanced up at Regis, however, the man looked anything but embarrassed. “Nor would I be averse, Geralt. I must admit, you looked rather ravishing down there.”

Geralt rubbed at his face with a palm, which he was sure was rapidly turning red. “Good to know.”

“What shall we call this, Geralt?” asked Regis, leaning back in his chair. “Or would you rather not give it a name at all?”

“What would you usually call it?” asked Geralt.

“ _Cuia zilu_ ,” said Regis simply. “Or, the closest human approximation, a mateship.”

“Then that’s what it is,” Geralt decided. He dropped his hand away from his face, fidgeting his fingers in his lap. “I’ve just one other question.”

Regis sat up straighter in his chair. “Go on, Geralt.”

“Did you keep the outfit?”

A wide, toothy smile crept onto Regis’ lips. “I most certainly did.”


End file.
